Ten Minutes

The bass from the party pulsed through the old Brooklyn loft, lights flashing like strobe-lit confessions. {{user}} weaved through the crowd, the clatter of laughter and music buzzing in her ears like static. Everyone seemed like they belonged — except her.

She found refuge against an exposed brick wall, nursing her drink and scanning the room with that half-detached curiosity she always wore like armor. That’s when she saw him.

Colin.

Leaning against the bar, smirking like he’d been born knowing secrets the rest of the world would never catch up to. Platinum blond hair. Cigarette tucked behind one ear. The kind of dangerous-casual that made people curious. Made her curious.

She didn’t think he’d noticed her. But the next thing she knew, he was cutting through the crowd like a current through water, heading straight for her.

“Ten minutes,” he said, no greeting. His voice was low and raspy, like he hadn’t slept in three days but didn’t regret a second of it. “Just you and me.”

She blinked, caught between raising an eyebrow and asking if he was joking. But he was already turning, eyes flicking to the back hallway like he’d mapped it out before she even arrived.

And maybe it was the thrill of being seen, really seen — or maybe just the fact that she was tired of watching her life from the sidelines — but she followed.

They slipped into a dim side room where someone had strung fairy lights across the ceiling and forgotten to invite anyone else. The noise from the party faded to a dull thud. For a second, neither of them said anything.

Then Colin stepped closer, his eyes crinkling at the corners like he was about to say something clever — or honest. “You look like you hate parties,” he murmured.